


awesome, wow!

by rescuemechinboyandshowmethestars



Series: fuck the bourgeoisie [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: I don't know why I wrote this, also don't read this if you don't like gratuitous ginsberg references lmao, ham/laurens/eliza is background so don't get excited, i serve the public so don't @ me, it's bc the people wanted it and the people deserve to see alex and george fuck, this took me 2 months to write literally just read it and pass judgement after, um don't read this if you hate banter during sex, well i do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 15:42:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7321060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rescuemechinboyandshowmethestars/pseuds/rescuemechinboyandshowmethestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“While you’re railing against the bourgeois, I’m gonna be getting railed by the bourgeois.” </p>
<p>and that's it. that's the whole thing. it's literally just alex getting railed by the most prominent member of the ruling class. um. so, you know. enjoy it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	awesome, wow!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Enjollrass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enjollrass/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Hamsquad™](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6133601) by [rescuemechinboyandshowmethestars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rescuemechinboyandshowmethestars/pseuds/rescuemechinboyandshowmethestars). 



> HELLO HELLO HELLO you're probably here because of hamsquad. if you are, hello, i love you, thanks for following me here, you already know what this is, go have fun. if you have NOT read my other fic, hamsquad, 1. you should 2. i will give you some quick backstory so you can then enjoy roughly 6k words of nonsense. basically, alex has a crush on george, but he's dating john and eliza. he's allowed a free pass--spoiler alert, george is that free pass. shenanigayns ensue. JUST WANT TO POINT OUT THAT THE TITLE IS NOT A DOGE MEME, IT'S A REF TO WHAT COMES NEXT. I AM CLARIFYING THAT BECAUSE MY PROOF READER THOUGHT I WAS GARBAGE ENOUGH TO INSERT A DOGE MEME INTO THIS. I AM NOT. if you see any errors lemme know so i can fix em. okay bye i'll see you at the end.

            Alexander Hamilton is, in a word, nervous. This is a rare occurrence. He’s filibustered Congress, said a flat _fuck you_ to his boss (someone who’s going to be the President of the United States) more than once, stared death in the face at least eight times (nine, if you count how mad Eliza was that one time that he ate all the marshmallows out of the Lucky Charms box), and once, memorably, stuck his hand into an alligator’s mouth to prove a point. He just doesn’t _get_ nervous. Except, now, he is.

            Before he can change his mind, he picks up his phone and types, “ _wanna come over?”_ Just three small words. He feels a little bit sick.

            “Eliza!” Alex yells.

            There’s a clattering noise, and then she pokes her head out of his bedroom door. “Yeah?” She takes one look at his face. “You texted George, didn’t you.”

            “Is it okay if he comes over?” he says, not quite an answer. She smirks. She’s noticed the dodge, clearly, but she’s not going to say anything.

            “That’s what we planned for. It’s perfectly fine,” Eliza promises. She looks down at her bare legs and frowns. “Shit. If you can wait until I get pants on, I’d prefer that.”

            “As much time as you need, best of women,” Hamilton assures her.

            “WHAT ARE WE WAITING FOR?” Laurens interrupts. He’s been laboring over a grilled cheese in the kitchen for an absurdly long time.

            “George is coming over,” Eliza announces proudly, like _she’s_ the one getting laid. Hamilton falls a little bit more in love with her. “Do you wanna go see a movie?”

            “I’m making grilled cheese,” John says, like it’s acceptable to spend longer than fifteen minutes assembling wheat bread and orange cheese squares. Eliza lets out a long-suffering sigh.

            “Go get your backpack. Tickets are on me, since you love railing against the bourgeois,” she says.

            He frowns, considers this, and disappears into the bedroom with no complaint to get dressed.

            “While you’re railing _against_ the bourgeois, I’m gonna be getting railed _by_ the bourgeois,” Alexander cackles.

            “Poor taste,” Eliza yells back.

            “ _Really_ poor taste,” John agrees loudly. He reappears in the doorway, fully clothed, only to have Eliza pop up behind him, yank his unbuttoned pants down so they fall to his ankles, and then disappear, giggling hysterically. “I hate y’all.”

            “I love youuuu,” Hamilton says, watching with enjoyment as John turns his back and does a series of unwieldy hops to get back into his skinny jeans.

            “We should make a hashtag called ‘things he says right before he goes to fuck another man’,” Laurens grumbles.

            “It could catch on,” Eliza says. She reappears with a toothbrush sticking out of her mouth and one leg into a skirt.

“It’s too long,” Alex says. Logically speaking, since #WasteHisTime2016 was a thing, it could catch on, but Alex doesn’t need _another_ thing dragging him through the mud. Angelica roasts him on Twitter enough.

Eliza gives him a stern Look (with a capital L) and says around her toothbrush, “Do we have enough snacks?”

            “It’s a booty call, not a playdate,” Laurens says. He pulls the toothbrush out of her mouth and wipes some spit off of her cheek with his thumb. “You’re dripping toothpaste everywhere.”

            “Thanks. Can you get my charger?”

            “It’s in my bag already. Alex, baby, want me to bring you back some juice or something for your buddy?” John mocks, softening the jibe with a smile. Hamilton flips him off, rolling his eyes back so far that he thinks they might get stuck.

            “Shut _up_ ,” Eliza calls from the bathroom. “I’m proud of being the mom friend. Someone has to do something responsible around here.”

“I’ll text George right now and see if he wants anything,” Alex deadpans, picking up his phone and miming typing.

“Just tell him that if he needs anything, I’ll--okay, whatever, I see now that you were kidding,” Eliza huffs. She emerges dressed, the apples of her cheeks still flushed and bright, wearing Laurens’s favorite Yankees ballcap backwards. “I'm leaving now. My pride can't take anymore of this. John, should we stop at the store before we go back to mine to get you real cheese for your sandwich?” Eliza fusses with her bag, hopping towards the door on one foot as she searches for her phone. Laurens takes her bag, hands her her phone, and opens the door for her.

“Kraft is fine,” he shrugs, ushering her out.

“ _Kraft!_ ” Eliza begins hotly. The door cuts off the rest of her tirade; Alex is sorry that he missed it.

He's left alone with a thick silence that he's wholly unaccustomed to. Carefully, he taps out a text to George (his address and a “ _it's fine to come now_ ”, ignoring the accidental double entendre) and then inspects his surroundings. He moves a couch pillow. It looked better before. He moves it back. He contemplates taking a shower, but he'd just let Eliza deep condition his hair yesterday. No use drying it out for no reason. Should he get something to eat? No, he decides, better not to complicate his stomach situation even more. Eventually,  he shakes himself out of his fruitless musings and goes to his bedroom, rummaging around on the floor until he finds his copy of Locke. He hasn't read it since last semester, but Jefferson always brings the philosopher up in Washington's meetings. He should be prepared.

-o-

7 o’clock finds Alexander Hamilton asleep on the couch, cradling his philosophy book like a baby. He's roused from his impromptu nap by a series of confident taps on the door.

“Shit,” he mumbles. “Shitshitshit. Fuck.” Stumbling, he makes it to the door and throws it open,  greeted by the sight of George, who's wearing an expensive-looking cashmere sweater and a beatific smile. Belatedly, Alex realizes that he's still holding the collected works of Locke against his chest. “Hi.”

“Hi,” George says simply. He has a J.C. Penney’s model smile. Jesus. Hamilton kind of hates him.

“As nice as you look standing in my doorway, you should probably come in,” Alex says, shuffling to the side so George can step in. He shuts the door and bounces towards the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink? I think we have orange juice. It always fucks with my stomach, though. Do you have orange juice in England? God, of _course_ you have orange juice in England. Never mind. Do you like milk? Or water. We have water. Is it too late for coffee? No, it's never too late for coffee. I thi--”

George takes a step forward, and another, pinning Alex against the wall. He takes a breath, and cuts Hamilton's rambling off by pressing his lips to the shorter man's. When he pulls back a moment later, they're both panting a little. “Water is fine.”

“Okay,” Alex says breathlessly. “Ice?”

“Sure,” George says. He steps back.

Hamilton scurries into the kitchen before his mouth betrays him again. He dumps ice cubes into a glass (turtle shaped, John's favorite) and fills it before he hurries back out. The sight of George sitting on his futon is quite incongruous with his usual evenings, but it's not necessarily a _bad_ picture. Hamilton sets the cup on the table.

“So,” Hamilton plops gracelessly down onto the couch next to George, crossing his legs underneath him.

“So,” George parrots. He takes a polite sip of the water, turtle ice cubes clinking against his teeth. _English manners_ , Alex thinks.

“Oh, God. I haven't had a pre-sex chat in, like, two years,” Alex says. Words haven't failed him--they never do--but he remembers the sweet charade of contrived awkwardness. It always worked well for him, mixed with his wide eyes and earnest interest in conversation.

George smiles at him, like he sees right through the bullshit, but thinks it's cute anyway. “No?”

“No,” Alex says cheerfully. He licks his lips.

“What do you usually talk about, then, to prop pretenses up?” George asks.

“Me and my current partners?”

George shrugs, and drinks some more water. “Sure.”

“Groceries,” Alex admits truthfully. “Bills, utilities, the state of the government.”

“Groceries,” George repeats, with something wistful on the curve of the last syllable. “Oh, to be stable and satisfied enough to discuss produce in bed. I envy you your groceries.”

“We can talk produce,” Alex says, edging closer to George on the couch. “I'll tell you about the state of my eggplant.”

George spits some water back into his glass.

“ _Christ_ , okay,” George wheezes. “Has a line like that ever worked for you?”

“You have _no_ idea,” Alex says, like he really is the kind of ass that refers to his penis as an eggplant on the regular. George probably isn't buying it. It's okay. Hamilton is enjoying himself.

“I love Americans,” George says absently, like he's forgotten that Hamilton is sitting right next to him. The smile on his face brightens. “You're all so blunt. It's titillating, to say the least.”

Alexander swallows the pun that's waiting for him there. “Can I be blunt again?” he says instead.

“I wish you would,” George replies. He sets the glass down on the table.

“I'd really like to kiss you again,” Alexander says. “If that's okay.”

“Honesty is so utterly refreshing,” George says. It's not an answer, but the way he rocks forward is. Dude looks like a catalogue model, and yet, he moves like a panther, well-oiled muscles rolling under all the cashmere. Alex can't catch a damn break, can he?

He slides over, throws a leg across George's waist, drops his head to breathe hot against the man's mouth. “I can do honest,” he says. George tilts his hips up, pressing against him.

“I can tell,” he says, and then they're kissing, and it's so _good_. Alex didn't even know he wanted it this bad, but he _does_.

George kisses how he talks--deliberate, authoritative, riding the edge of dirty. Alex wonders if it's too soon to moan. George shifts underneath him, and his thigh presses up against Alex's dick. Any qualms about making noise fly out the window. Hamilton buries his face into George’s neck and outright _gasps_.

George grabs Alex’s hips and moves him carefully so that both of his legs are slung across his lap. Alex lets his legs fall open while he bites George’s neck, happy to be maneuvered like a rag doll. George’s hands are huge (Alex hopes that he’s proportional), and he slides one across Alexander’s inner thigh and up to his fly, fiddling with the zipper. Alex whines into his neck, the prospect of things to come ( _enough with the puns, damn it, Alex_ , he thinks) almost too much.

“Can we, mmmph. Do you wanna go to bed? Christ, we can't have sex out here. _Peggy_ sleeps here sometimes, and if they find out we fucked on their makeshift bed, they're gonna _kill_ me.”

“Probably shouldn't bring Peggy up in bed,” George says mildly. He pulls Alex's zipper down. Alex is going to _die_ if he doesn't get some friction.

“We're not in bed, though,” Hamilton says. George rolls his eyes. “And don't let Peggy catch you saying that they don't come up in bed. They're waiting to elbow me out of my role as New York's most-swiped on Tinder. They'll be crushed if they think they're not the first thing that comes to mind when people are fucking.”

“I'll text them tomorrow and tell them they're the first thing we discussed,” George says, and then, _hoooly shit_ , he's standing up with Alex's legs wrapped around his waist. He's just _holding_ him like it's no big deal, and Alex feels the weight of every extra bowl of pasta he's had this week acutely. George is entirely untroubled, striding around the couch and glancing at the two doors on the other side of the room. “Which one's the bedroom?”

Alex points and squeezes his thighs around George's waist simultaneously, narrowly resisting the urge to tell him to giddy up.

“What, am I a horse now?” George snorts as he fumbles with the doorknob, one hand still gripping Alex's ass.

“I'd certainly like to ride you,” Hamilton says conversationally. George blushes _furiously_ , a tsunami of pink washing over him, staining his cheeks and his neck. Alex wants to see how far down that pink goes. George gets the door open and shoulders his way into the bedroom, searching for the light switch.

“That American honesty,” George begins. “Is going to be the death of me.”

“There are worse ways to go,” Hamilton argues. He wiggles in George's arms, eyeing the bed longingly.

“I'm sure,” George responds. “Where the _fuck_ is the light switch.”

“Will you just kiss me again,” Alex says, too desperate to ask a proper question.

George does kiss him, impossibly gentle, still holding him up while he edges towards the mattress. Alex can feel the muscles in his bicep bunch, and then he's getting tossed onto the bed, with George rolling on top of him to bite at his neck. He undoes the buttons on Hamilton’s jeans simultaneously, and Alex has never felt so blessed in his life,

“You could, you know--” Hamilton starts, but George is a step ahead, reaching up to wind his fingers into Hamilton's hair and tug. “Okay, fuck, how'd you know.”

“You have that look,” George says pleasantly, as if they're discussing an innocent topic like, well, like produce.

“I have an I-like-getting-my-hair-pulled-so-much-that-sometimes-I-moan-at-the-salon-accidentally-while-I’m-getting-a-trim look? You're more perceptive than I gave you credit for,” Alex mumbles. He squirms, reaching for the waistband of George's jeans. _Shit_ , his dick is big.. Alex totally called it. The man has got the tripod walk--he moves like he knows he has a prize in his pants, and if we're calling dicks prizes now, then it's safe to say that Hamilton has won the goddamn lottery.

“So I've been told,” George says. He rocks his hips into Hamilton's hand, and he's making this rumbling noise low in his chest that's hotter than it should be. Alex fiddles with the button of his jeans and manages to pop it open, sliding his hand past--he's wearing _silk_ boxers, Alex really _is_ getting railed by the bourgeois today. He gets his hand under the waistband, and _fuck_ yes, his dick is huge. Alex is _living._

Alex flexes his fingers and starts working his hand up and down, bringing George to full attention in, like, a millisecond. He feels very proud that his skills haven’t been diminished by domesticity. George is blinking up at him with his round blue eyes a little bit glassy already, and Alex beams and kisses his cheek quickly before he engages in a one-handed struggle with George’s jeans, the other hand still methodically jacking him off.

“Okay, hang on,” George says, and pulls Alex’s hand off of his dick so he can squirm out of his jeans and get his boxers down. “It’s weird if it’s just me naked.”

“An eye for an eye,” Alex says, and pulls his own jeans off too.

They must make an absolutely ridiculous picture--Alex in his t-shirt with Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s face on it and George in his fancy sweater, neither of them wearing pants or underwear. Alex stifles a giggle and turns onto his side so he can grind his hips against George’s, soft skin on skin, their uneven breaths melting together in a symphony.

“It’s still a little weird,” Alex says a moment later, while he’s in between George’s legs, George’s dick in his hand again.

“It’s weird _now_ ,” George says, with an eyebrow raised. “What’s up?”

“I haven’t slept with a guy other than John in, like, a year,” Alex mumbles. “What if I forgot how to suck dick that’s not committed to me?”

“I think you’ll figure it out,” George says, with a grin like a hungry wolf. “You’re very smart.”

“That’s true,” Alex agrees. “Are we doing condoms for this?”

“Dealer’s choice,” George says politely.

Alex shrugs merrily and gets his mouth around George’s cock.

George is too dignified to whine, but he does make the rumbling noise again in his chest, and simultaneously manages to look majestic and imperious despite being _in flagrante delicto._ Alex can’t go all the way down--he has a tendency to gag and he really doesn’t need to injure his throat (talking is all he’s good at)--so he wraps his hand around what his mouth can’t reach and and slides down slow, breathing through his nose evenly, meeting George’s eyes.

George’s hands twitch, like he can’t tell if he’s allowed to put them in Alex’s hair or not. Alex hums as loud as he can with a great deal of dick in his mouth, attempting to signal his approval. It must work, because George swears under his breath and tugs on his strands with just the right amount of pressure. Alex figures he must’ve done this before, and then he swallows tightly at the thought of George pulling other people’s hair (whatever, sue him, it’s a nice image), and is rewarded with a little gasp.

It could be an hour, but is probably only a few minutes; Alex isn’t sure, is happy to just get lost in the slide of tongue and hands and skin. At some point, his eyes had fluttered shut, overwhelmed by the sensation. His free hand traces circles on George’s inner thigh, skips over to press nail marks into the meat of his ass, reaches up to get under his shirt and scrape over the smooth skin of his chest. George’s mumbled curses and sighs and choked breaths serve as an obscene surrealist soundtrack to his fantasy playing out in real life. Finally, George’s hips stutter up, and he whispers, “Sorry, but--”

Alex shakes his head, waves his hand, tries to say _go ahead_ without pulling off. George gets out an, “Is this okay,”, and then he’s coming down Alex’s throat, and it’s honestly quite nice. Markedly different than John, but still, nice in feeling if not in flavor. He slides off with a wet noise and grins up at George.

“That was fun,” he says brightly. He wipes the corner of his mouth and pops his jaw. “What’s next,”

“God,” George says. “Jesus. Come here.”

Alex crawls up the bed so he can straddle George, and they trade lazy kisses, with Alex struggling to pull the sweater off without fucking up the knit and George wrinkling Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s T-shirt-face. Alex’s phone dings once, then five times in rapid succession; definitely a group chat notification. He hopes Eliza hasn’t said anything embarrassing about this. He forgets to worry immediately, because George is kissing him extremely thoroughly, and he’s good at multitasking, but not that good.

“It would be so cool,” Alex says, an indeterminate amount of time later, after George has pulled away from his mouth and is sucking what feels like one hell of a hickey into his neck. “So cool, if--Jesus _Christ_ , George, your tongue is totally illegal--if you wanted to fuck me.”

George sits back and smiles the wolf smile again, eyes bright and shiny. “That would be cool, yes. Condoms? Lube? Where?”

“What kind of host would I be if I didn’t provide these things,” Alex says, half to himself, and rolls off the bed, legs still shaking from the frankly lethal combination of George’s hands and mouth. He digs a condom out of the bedside drawer, and then, after further consideration, goes to get John’s magnum condoms, because he’s had George in his mouth and thinks he estimated the size pretty well and magnums are _not_ out of the question. He runs to the bathroom to get the lube, and then runs back, forgets that the lights are off, and trips over his pants. He crashes gracelessly onto the bed with a grunt, knocking his forehead into George’s thigh. “Ha, fuck,” he says.

“You good?” George asks.

“Yes, but. I think lights are a good idea?” Alex suggests.

“Definitely,” George agrees.

Alex gets up again, this time more carefully, and flicks on the lamp. George looks even nicer illuminated in soft yellow light, with shadows curled in the hollow of his collarbones and beneath the curve of his jaw, penumbras gathering on his skin like a congregation of churchgoers after a good sermon.

“Hi,” Alex says again, staring. George smiles.

“Hi,” he says. “How are you,”

“I’m great,” Alex says. He bounces across the mattress, lube and condoms in hand, and sits down, close enough that he can feel the heat of George’s thigh, but not close enough to touch. Which is ridiculous, because they’re about to have _sex_. Which is wild. He’s processing. It’s fine. He’s fine. “Sorry. This is a total mindfuck for me. Your Instagram feed makes it seem like you only eat pre-cut fruit and jack off to Mozart.”

“I _should_ jack off to Mozart. His music increases brain activity by twenty-five percent,” George says, smile still clinging to the edges of his mouth. “You good?”

“I could put on Mozart,” Alex offers. He fiddles with the lube cap. “I think I’m good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Alex decides. Ease into it. Toe in the water, he thinks. “It’s twenty percent, by the way. For Mozart. Even though the Mozart Effect has never been conclusively denied or confirmed.”

“I know,” George says, the smile growing into a grin.

“Oh my God, were you testing me?” Alex glares. “‘Cause that’s...Actually, that’s a little bit hot.”

“Am I gonna have to ask you trivia questions to give you an erection, Hamilton?” George asks, pulling the lube out of Alex’s hand. “What year was the Texas Revolution?”

“1835 through 1836,” Alex says automatically. “Not to be confused with 1845, which was when Texas was annexed. Shut the fuck up and put your fingers up my ass,”

George splutters. “Christ, okay.”

“Calm down, George. I’m fine. I’m here for this. Let’s do it.”

“You’re kind of making it seem like we’re about to scale Mt. Everest together,” George says, still grinning at him. “Are you gonna lay down? This feels like I’m about to give you a prostate exam.”

“OhmyGod, you better not have an unexplored doctor kink, George,” Alex says, dropping the condoms and settling back against the pillows. He pulls his shirt off and spreads his legs invitingly, staring up at the other man. “I am not the one to explore it with.”

“What if I have a lawyer kink? A city government employee kink?” George asks. He slides in between Alex’s thighs and dips his head to press a kiss to the skin of his stomach, right above his hip. “Then what?”

“I’m actually a member of the state government, so it’d be wise of you to _not_ demote me if you want to explore your kinks with me,” Alex says dramatically, breath catching in his throat when George bites down, sucking gently on his skin.

George leans back and busies himself with slicking up his fingers, looking at Alex, who makes a very pretty picture, with his raven hair coming loose from its bun and his dark eyes sparkling in the lamplight. “Right, so who do I call if I want a pothole fixed?”

“I can only help with one kind of hole,” Alex says, and then winces when George chokes laughing. “Oh, God, I have no clue what’s wrong with me tonight,”

“Jesus, you’re cute. Ready?” George asks.

“So ready,”

George rubs his fingers together quickly, hoping the lube is warm enough by now, and then he presses his thumb to Alex’s hole, dragging around it in a slow circle.

“I’m low key nervous about this,” Alex says, and then lets a moan spill out when George takes his thumb away and presses in with the tip of his index finger. “Oh my God, never mind.”

“Do you ever shut up,” George says, without a hint of meanness, just sounding truly curious.

“No,” Alex says, smirking. George presses in the rest of the way carefully, and while he doesn't possess the same encyclopedic knowledge of Alex's body that John has, he does a remarkably swift job of finding Alex's prostate. It's nice. It's _really_ nice, actually. “The reviews are in, folks,” Alex pants, arching his back and trying to grind down on George's finger simultaneously. “It’s going great. We’d give it more than four stars if he’d add another finger,”

“Can you not,” George says pointedly, not specifying what exactly Alexander should _not_ be doing, and yet, conveying his exasperation effectively. He obliges, however, withdrawing briefly to put some more lube on his middle finger before returning to his original position. He's not really pressing on Alex's prostate so much as he's _brushing_ it; it'd be hot if it wasn’t so goddamn annoying. He obviously knows where it is. It just seems like he's not going to _do_ anything about it.

“Audience members have said that the show would've been better if George had applied pressure to Alex's prostate,” Alexander says through gritted teeth, spitting out a moan when George digs his teeth into his thigh.

“Stop acting like me finger-fucking your ass is a movie up for review at the Cannes Film Festival,” George says flatly, a ghost of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

Alex fakes a gasp. “Such crass language from the future ruler of, like, everything!”

“If you _can_ be quiet, you should try it now,” George suggests. He presses what feels like his index finger to Alex's prostate, stroking against it once, and Alex lets out a terribly high pitched squeak and lets his head loll back against the pillows.

“Oh my God,” Alex says. “I could be persuaded to shut up if you did that again,”

“I don't think you could _ever_ be persuaded to shut up,” George says mildly. He does it again, anyway, a feather light brush, not nearly enough, and does the characteristic George Grin™, all teeth and wild eyes on the edge of unhinged, clinging to control. “Just tell me when you want another finger.”

“I thought I was supposed to shut up,” Alex says contrarily, sticking his tongue out at George.

“I’m not an optimistic man, myself,” George says. He squeezes Alex's thigh, nails digging in on the right side of pain, territorial and firm. “I wouldn't ask you to do something you couldn't follow through on,”

“You’re _mean_ ,” Alex says delightedly, sitting up to reach for George's shoulders and kiss him. It's kind of an awkward position, George's fingers still inside of him, and he’s craning his neck a bit, and there's almost too much tongue, but it works, it _totally_ works. Alex pulls back, mouth tingling a little. “I love it.”

“Someone’s got to,” George says, glowing a little at the praise. “How are we feeling?”

“We’re feeling fine,” Alex responds, rocking his hips down. “We’re feeling like another finger would be a cool thing.”

“Already? Insatiable creature,” George says, not that he seems to mind, and he's got a third finger at the ready before Alex can blink, so he nods, and then George presses that one in too, and everything is great. Maybe too great.

“Yo,” Alex says. “Stop for a sec,”

George stills his fingers immediately. “Take them out?”

“Nah, nah, it's just. Ha, um, it feels too good. Like I might come before you're in me? Ya dig?” Alex says, absolutely positive that he's bright pink.

“I dig,” George affirms.

It's a little weird, sitting there with three fingers in his ass, breathing evenly and trying to _not_ come, which feels counterintuitive. George makes it kind of not weird, just reassuringly kisses his forehead and cheek and the corner of his mouth while Alex thinks of every death on _Game of Thrones_ to get his dick to chill the fuck out.

“Okay,” he says, after an indeterminate amount of time. “All clear.”

“Okay,” George nods. “You sure?”

“Sure,” Alex approves.

George goes back to it, slowly stretching and stroking again and there's pressure in some spots and not enough in others and there’s a hand on his cock now, and he's not levelheaded enough to track any of it, has only the presence of mind to keen and whine and rock down onto the fingers in him. Finally, George kisses his thigh, which is twitching and trembling and probably sweaty, and says, “I think you might be ready, yeah?”

And Alex says _yeah_ very hastily and scrambles for the condom box before his limbs are totally ready to support him, and manages an aborted flop. “The condoms are in that direction,” he says, shrugging. “I’m gonna chill for a minute,”

“I got it,” George assures him.

There's crinkling, and then silence while he presumably rolls the condom on, and then the click of the lube cap, and Alex is a little afraid to watch his dick go into his ass because it feels like there’s a _lot_ , so he just, y’know, chills.

“How ya feelin’, champ,” Alex says, when George is maybe a quarter of the way in, and he's low-key losing his mind.

“Not a fan of the baseball coach thing either,” George says, smiling fondly, looking mysteriously put together while Alex is feeling like he's about to move to an alternate plane of existence. “I think I should be asking _you_ that. Everything good?”

“Everything is _so_ good,” Alex says cheerfully, rolling his hips to demonstrate. “Every inch.”

“Awesome, wow,” George says, vaguely sarcastic and mostly exclamatory. He pauses, draws part of the way out, slides back in; Alex yelps and grabs white knuckled at the pillow beneath his head, one hundred percent ready to come _already_. He resumes, torturously slow.

Alexander isn't really sure _how_ long it took him to bottom out. He was having such a nice time that he forgot to notice, but George is completely seated inside him, and yeah, that's just as great as everything else was, if not greater. He bounces a little, a test drive, and the slide he gets is superlative.

“The lines of communication are open, everyone feels good,” Alex says, trying to modulate his breath where it's hitching in his chest. “You can move, if you're interested.”

“I’m interested,” George huffs, grinding a little against Alex's ass. “Definitely interested. And I don't like ‘lines of communication’, it sounds like this is a telethon pledge drive.”

“I pledge allegiance to your dick,” Alex says, and then beams when George rolls his eyes. “Sorry. I'll keep trying. I might hit something smooth eventually,” he adds hopefully, and then trails off into a moan when George bumps against his prostate.

“You’ve got such a way with words usually, Hamilton. I wonder what's gone wrong. You could put yourself out of a job this way,” George says conversationally, like he doesn't have his hands on Alex's waist, literally moving the other man up and down on his cock. Alex wonders if the Brits train their men to talk like they've got a teacup in one hand, even if they've got a dick in the other. It's a skill he could use himself, really.

“Washington needs me,” Alex contradicts, not arrogant, just honest. “I’m his right hand man. Oh, that's something. I could be _your_ right hand man. Get it? ‘Cause you jack off with your right hand, but then _I'm_ your right hand, so _I'm_ jacking you off? Shit, I think that one was the worst.”

“It’s probably not very good if you have to explain it, and I’m a fan of my left hand, really,” George says kindly. “Don’t force it, darling, you'll think of something.”

“You’ve got really high pickup line standards. I'm short, man, I can't reach,” Alex says. “Wait. I don't have to be tall to reach what really counts. Your dick. Mm, no, that's not it either.”

“It’s not,” George informs him gravely. Alex lets himself fall silent, focuses on squeezing his ass at opportune moments as George fucks him steadily, no sign of either slowing or speeding up. The relentless pace is pushing him to the edge so fast that he feels like he's slipping towards the edge of a cliff. Just for the record, it is, again, _great._

“A reacharound would be helpful,” Alex says, after another minute of this. “If you're not too busy.”

“Anything for a friend. Is it still a reacharound if I'm not reaching around anything?” George asks. He fists Alex's cock carefully, and he's still got some residual lube on his hand that's probably not sanitary but is helpful in facilitating what feels like the best hand job Alex has ever gotten.

“It’s,” Alex says, and then loses his train of thought while trying to fuck into George's fist and also _get_ fucked.

“Ah,” George says absent mindedly, trying to hold the rhythm of his hand and his dick, and also trying to not come again before Alex is satisfied. It's all easier said than done, and a man with lesser talent would be sorely out of luck.

“You can come,” Alex offers.

“Ha,” George says. “Before you? I think not.” Alex rolls his eyes, and then groans when George picks up the pace.

“Mama didn't raise a quitter, etcetera?” Alex says, raising an eyebrow.

“No, she did not,” George says, oddly prim for someone in such a compromising position.

Alex tilts up to kiss him again, drawing back every so often to whine at the complete sensory overload, and he only has time to get out a, “ _Fuck_ ,”, and then he's coming into George's hand, trapped between both of their stomachs. George follows him a few seconds later, polite to a fault.

He's not sure how long it takes him to come down, honestly. It's not so much a speaking in tongues, passing out, fanfictionesque orgasm as it is a wave, a slow, all-consuming head rush of pleasure that's not too overwhelming, just feels _good_. He doesn't think he could move even if he wanted to. He's not even sure if he can talk. He just lays there, feeling every nerve in his body light up, acutely aware of neurons firing and endorphins releasing.

The mattress creaks when George gets up, and then dips back down a moment later when he returns, holding a warm washcloth to clean Alex's stomach and between his legs. He does it quick, almost clinical, and then disappears again. Upon his second return, he comes bearing water for both of them.

Alex props himself up on his elbow and moves his head so he can put his head on George's chest. He takes a sip of water, and croaks, “That was nice.”

“Worth the wait,” George says. “Critics have given it five stars across the board.”

“Shut up, you fucker,” Alex grumbles. “The Cannes Festival is not interested in commentary from the peanut gallery. Let the experts talk. Wait. The _penis_ gallery, _ha_!”

“I have to go,” George informs him archly, rolling his eyes again.

Alex grabs his wrist and presses a kiss to the inside of it, pouting. “I found the perfect line, though. Penis gallery. I'm hilarious, honestly.”

“Goodnight, Alexander,” George says. He kisses Alex's forehead sweetly, and pulls the blankets up over their waists.

“Goodnight, George,” Alex says, and switches off the light.

-o-

The morning after, Alex wakes up moments before George does. They take a moment to stare at each other, and then George presses a kiss to Alex’s mouth, no tongue and a scrape of teeth, gentle enough to match the pale purple morning outside, and Alex says, “I’m with you in Rockland, where we wake up electrified,”, feeling the kiss in the spaces in between his ribs and the pads of his fingers.

George wrinkles his nose. “Get out of bed, Ginsberg. Let’s take a shower.”

“Are you a Ginsbergphobe?” Alex asks, frowning. “Because if you are, I'm gonna have to take back everything I did last night.”

“Hopefully not everything,” George says, with a wicked smile. Alex’s heart stops in his chest, and he leans forward again, chasing George's mouth.

“The Ginsbergs are my favorite,” Alex declares, as he tugs George out of bed. “Ruth Bader and Allen.”

“I couldn't tell,” George says drily.

“Judgement free zone,” Alex huffs. “I’m instituting one. Abide by the rules.”

“Make me,” George says, and grins, eyes sharp, losing the film of sleep in an instant.

Alexander is happy to.

 

**Author's Note:**

> WOW i did that and it was fun i hope you had a nice time here too. if you want to talk to me, i am, as ever, your most humble and obedient servant @jamesmadiSIN on twitter and irltrash.tumblr.com on tumblr. i gotta thank @OBLWAN_ on twitter and enjollrass on here, author of les amemes (which is rlly good, check it out) for reading this. also, elizabeth, you're an angel thanks for proof reading this and stopping me from referencing phineas and ferb in here. (ferb, i know WHO we're gonna do today) (I KNOW I KNOW IM SORRY) anyway if you liked this i also have another fic which is where this is from. it's called hamsquad and you can find it here. http://archiveofourown.org/works/6133601?view_full_work=true i've also conveniently linked this fic to that one so you're just a click away. thank you for reading byeeee


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